


their passions a quotation

by vienna_salvatori



Category: Rusty Quill Gaming (Podcast)
Genre: Aromantic Oscar Wilde (Rusty Quill Gaming), Character Study, Gen, Pre-Canon, aroaceingtheline2021
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-23
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:42:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29654268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vienna_salvatori/pseuds/vienna_salvatori
Summary: Wilde has always been good at the physical side of relationships. It's kind of a major personality trait, at this point.Romance? Yeah, not so much. He likes to think he understands people, most of the time, but the whole concept kind of goes right over his head.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 20
Collections: AroAceing the Line





	their passions a quotation

**Author's Note:**

> I've fallen into this fandom and I can't get out, send help. Or not. It's actually kinda nice here!!! 
> 
> Anyway. Important note: I'm asexual and not aromantic (i.e. the least helpful combination for writing this character study, not my smartest move). I've done the best I can to represent this but PLEASE let me know if I've messed anything up!!! 
> 
> The prompt for this was technically the "coming out - in the closet - erasing the line - black" one, and was focused on erasing the line because something something the line between performed self and actual self, but eh, it kinda got away from me.

There are many things people think when they hear the name Oscar Wilde.

Reporter. Playwright. Social climber. Star of the gossip columns. Meritocratic agent. Heartbreaker.

Illusionist.

Others look on the work of an illusionist as frivolous, flights of fancy by those lacking the discipline for true academia. It is emotionally charged, shallow, fades away the moment one turns their attention elsewhere- in other words, exactly the sort of thing a moderately bright, incredibly vain young boy with an Oxford education might pick up on the side. A fun party trick with which to entertain his friends and lovers, that’s all. Nothing dangerous, nothing helpful. Just a show, that’s all. Just a show.

However.

If you’re building an illusion, you need to get the basics right. No amount of bright colours and flashing lights can distract from the fact that the wheels on your carriage aren’t turning, your buildings cast no shadows, or your anatomy is ever so slightly off, distorted images that unsettle rather than entrance. Stop. Breathe. Start at the beginning and build it up, layer upon layer, harmony upon harmony. Learn your melody inside and out before you shape it into existence, lest the foundations crumble halfway through.

A frivolous discipline? Perhaps. But it is a frivolity rooted in a deep understanding of beauty. An academic study of aestheticism, of the myriad ways in which light scatters from the sun, the moon, from campfires, from torches. The slight difference in acoustics as pounding feet land on metal or wood or stone. Soft lilting accents and harsh guttural ones, committed to memory and poured forth with equal care. The gentle movements of a lover and the desperate blows of a fighter and everything in between, a survey in anatomy that would impress even the most ardent physicians. Wilde studied all of it- still studies, to this day, constantly adding to his repertoire- because the illusion, once it’s done, needs to be flawless.

And then- and then. Once it’s done, once the image is formed in his mind, a four-dimensional living, breathing, thing even before he pours his soul and Song into it, Wilde will stop, and smile, ever so slightly, before he sings it into existence. Appreciating his craft, even if no one else does.

There is an art to being effortless, and it is one that Wilde has mastered.

Oscar Wilde is a performance as perfectly rehearsed as his illusions, these days. There is a truth to his masks, to be sure, just like there is a truth to his illusions, but it is one spun so deftly, he hazards a guess that most would be hard-pressed to find it.

Wilde is beautiful, and he knows it- cherishes it. He understands clothes and makeup in a way that only a budding socialite can, grasps fashion and beauty like the connoisseur he undoubtedly is. Wilde is young, and beautiful, and his body is lithe and graceful and a weapon for the meritocratic order to use as they see fit, albeit one with a little more finesse than your _average_ sword-wielding maniac. He knows what his job is. He knows why he was hired, why he alone of all the razor-sharp minds that schooled with him has risen to such heights, and he does not care. The best illusions are based in truth, and it is not even a lie to say he enjoys it. He appreciates beauty- his own, and others. He enjoys the social dance of it all, slipping silver-tongued through people’s defences, and he almost invariably enjoys what comes after. It is a good job that he has- one that pays well, well enough to cover even his expensive tastes, and gives him plenty of opportunities- travel, conversation with interesting people, and, yes, indulging in his… _appreciation_ for his fellow men.

However…

Wilde understands what makes people tick. Manipulation and control are not officially taught to meritocratic agents, likely because attracting the _right_ sort of attention requires such a mastery of the skills in the first place. He is no exception, has been spinning tales as long as he can remember, knows exactly what to say to convince those around him to dance to his tune, even without calling on magic- on music- they could hear. (Sometimes, only rarely, the morals behind it all will bother him- but then he sits back and watches a while. All the world’s a stage, after all, and if they aren’t dancing to his tune, well, these players will only find someone else’s. His performances, at the very least, are beautiful. And _frequently_ enjoyable for those pulled into them. He cannot say the same for the work of all his colleagues.) There are, Wilde knows, _so_ many ways to play this game, so many people he could be, a myriad of performances that could get the job done.

He does not understand why this whole _romance_ thing seems to be quite so effective.

At first, he thought, perhaps this was Oxford. Perhaps this was a- a weakness of the upper classes, a desire for human contact from a group so cut off from the realities of the world that they placed _truly_ undue emphasis on an enjoyable, but altogether rather insignificant, act. The same could be said of the upper classes of London, and of Paris- but no. The more he travelled, both geographically and socially, the more he realised that this particular angle seemed universal. People loved him, and not just for his looks and his sharp wit and his sparkling, seemingly harmless, illusions. Instead, they want- what? His heart? Not a gift easily given, to be sure, and if they believe the image he projects, most will believe he does not even have one. His loyalty? He’s already sworn to his work, to concepts of order and civilization so much bigger than one person, no matter how interesting they may be. His friendship? They seem not to care for him as a person, oftentimes, only wanting the illusion. The few times he’s risked dropping some of the masks, the individuals in question seemed to immediately lose interest. It’s not a risk he has any interest in taking again, especially not in the line of duty.

He just-

He doesn’t get it.

They call him heartless, sometimes. When he leaves. Incapable of love, they say, but he knows it’s a lie. He _built_ these masks for himself, and the illusion doesn’t work unless you know every step of it, understand exactly what lies beneath. He has a heart. He loved his family. He loved his home and now he loves the world, the beauty and the madness and the impossibility of it all. He loves his work. He will never admit it out loud, but in the privacy of his own head, there may be a few of his colleagues he would call friends. He thinks he might love them, sometimes, even if they also drive him mad. (There must be a reason he comes back, time and time again. Every time something needs doing, he’s there, never letting anyone else take the fall. He loves his job, yes, but not that much. Not enough to explain going to that much trouble. Not on its own.)

(Regardless, the accusations bother him.)

* * *

There’s a new team. His new team, apparently. Pulled in at the last second, like always. Good old Wilde, always ready to lend a hand, always there whenever a job needs doing-

Ahem.

He’s familiar with several of the names, if not the individual members, and quickly latches onto one Bertrand MacGuffingham as the most likely member to fall for his talents and lack the brains to realise he’s being played. Bit of a pity that the dwarf- well. Never mind.

That night, as he goes through the motions of what is proving to be a truly uninspiring engagement with the pompous blowhard, he finds his thoughts turn inwards. Introspective.

_Does it matter? that I’m- different. That I don’t feel this, don’t understand._

An illusion is quick, after all. It is there and it is gone. He is a masterful illusionist and the masks which make up Oscar Wilde, reporter, darling of the social life of both London and Paris… well, he built them in the same way, from the ground up, lingering on all the details as he went. He knows he can do his job. In fact, he might even be able to do it _better_ than some of his colleagues. He is not broken, not in ways that matter.

And who is he, nowadays? The idea of leaving meritocratic service is absurd- he will do his work, and he will do it well, and one day he will die for it. There is little of him not part of a mask, nowadays, he lives and breathes performance like only an illusionist can. The truth of Oscar Wilde is more outward than inward, he is least himself when he talks in his own person. He has been erasing the line between truth and fiction, turning himself into a mask or vice versa for so long, that the act is practically second nature.

Oscar Wilde the socialite is a known heartbreaker, one who leaves a string of one-night stands and scandals in his wake. Oscar Wilde behind the mask finds the scandals amusing, and while he might not necessarily aim to hurt, he eyes the broken hearts he leaves behind more with bemusement than guilt. He certainly has higher priorities to address, far more urgent uses of his time than playacting the doting lover for anybody. Besides, even if he did, he doubts he could keep up the illusion. (He could. He’s just… not entirely sure he cares, and besides, that feels like the sort of lie people would care about once it all came tumbling down.)   
Wilde doesn’t understand what they want from him- to stay, and be someone he’s not, lean even more into the performance, knowing that sooner or later he’ll run out of material? Leave, providing a nice scandal for the tabloids but a bitter parting with his nightly company? He can’t give everyone what they want, and the concept of romance, of romantic love, is so far down his list of priorities it barely even registers.

Feeling love, then-

Love is calculated, it has to be. Love depends on trust, and is not a luxury he can afford, despite- or perhaps _because_ of- the amount of gold he has scattered through a dozen vaults around the globe. He does not think he could love a person, not in the way everyone else seems to expect. Not when his mind, body, and soul are all devoted to something so much bigger.

Maybe, one day, he will meet someone who will understand that. Maybe one day he will not work alone. He can’t see himself in a trashy romance novel as anything other than a heartbreaker, but maybe, if the world is kind, he will find people to love regardless. Someone, or someone _s,_ that he can trust, who will trust him, who won’t care in the slightest that he doesn’t fit into perfect little boxes.

Until then-

-Oscar smirks, and lets himself have _fun_.


End file.
